On Christmas Eve, Ellie was standing in the kitchen watching her mother’s arm disappear to her elbow in the turkey – a pale lavender thing, head tilted like a drunk on a long, loose, goose-bumped neck.
The bird, as her mother liked to say, reclined across the generous proportions of a Sunday newspaper. The gizzard, heart and liver she set aside; the other yellow, grey and bluish innards she discarded on still more newspaper.
She’d know he had some time by the empty glass with its track of Guinness and the cake crumbs on the good china plate. She’d set out this snack on a small table beside the armchair her grandfather liked to sit in. He, also, always arrived late on Christmas Eve, and said it was better to leave stout not milk for Santa because children all over the world left milk and he’d appreciate the change.
Ellie's pleasant reverie was cut short by a sudden and terrible realisation that unhappily coincided with a loud sucking noise as her mother’s hand escaped from the turkey - one last time. She hadn’t written to Santa - barely six but already forgetful. Now there wasn’t time. There was no way he could know Ellie had been good but had just forgotten. He’d probably find that hard to believe, anyway, Ellie thought. She didn’t know she was crying until her mother said ‘What’s wrong, it’s just the turkey, it’s a messy old job but I’m done now’.
But what was turkey mess to Ellie? She couldn’t even smell it anymore because her nose was running. Christmas lay in ruins before her. No need for her to leave out stout or cake. No need to lie afraid of not being able to sleep too early in the first place and wake too early in the second. No little dilemmas about putting toys away until after dinner when the good crockery was safely back in the sideboard, and Granda was snoring in his chair.
But now Ellie's mother was down beside her, her face level with hers – the way it was when she really needed her to understand what she was saying. And she was saying: ‘Of course he’ll remember you’. But Ellie sobbed: ‘No, there are too many little children in the world, and it’s just him and it’s all I had to do, and I was good, I was really good, and I want a doll without pointy heels and elbows, but now he doesn’t know...’
When her mother said: ‘We can phone him’, Ellie's first thought wasn’t ‘But we don’t have a phone’ or ‘How do you know Santa’s number – how do you know Santa has a phone’ but ‘My mother is the best mother in the world’. And then her mother had tissues and was saying ‘Blow’ and Ellie blew; and then her mother had Ellie's overcoat, and her own, and the car keys.
Roadside hedges stood stiff in the dry-night frost to let them pass. Her mother wiped mist from the windscreen and the heater, belting out cold air, undid her work. The village had settled down for the night and everything was quiet. The telephone kiosk, like a candle, lit up the footpath between the church and shop.
Ellie's mother parked beside it and left Ellie in the car. Her bulk filled up the phone box and she was dialing. The little girl watched transfixed, no longer cold, but thinking: ‘He’s probably left already’. At least, she thought, he should have given the distances he had to cover. Her mother gave her a wave and then turned her back. Ellie watched her mother's breath make clouds in the confined space. Her head nodded a couple of times. Then she hung up and came back to the car.
‘Santa’s left already’. Ellie's heart sank. ‘But the elf in charge at the North Pole said of course Santa hadn’t forgotten you – he suggested we get home quickly so Santa doesn’t find you awake when you should be sleeping’.
Ellie thought: ‘But he doesn’t know what to bring me’ but refused worries about dolls with pointy heels or Santa arriving before they got back home. Instead she said: ‘Thank you, Mum’ and her mother said: ‘You’re very welcome, now let’s go home so I can stuff that turkey.’
Ellie knew she’d use the giblets – as funny sounding as the gizzard – to make the gravy. That set Ellie's mind wandering to Christmas Day. Thinking she really liked the part after dinner better than the part before, even though the part before included waking up to Santa’s presents.
Barbara Clinton © 2013
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| Christmas Tree in Auckland |
She’d know he had some time by the empty glass with its track of Guinness and the cake crumbs on the good china plate. She’d set out this snack on a small table beside the armchair her grandfather liked to sit in. He, also, always arrived late on Christmas Eve, and said it was better to leave stout not milk for Santa because children all over the world left milk and he’d appreciate the change.
Ellie's pleasant reverie was cut short by a sudden and terrible realisation that unhappily coincided with a loud sucking noise as her mother’s hand escaped from the turkey - one last time. She hadn’t written to Santa - barely six but already forgetful. Now there wasn’t time. There was no way he could know Ellie had been good but had just forgotten. He’d probably find that hard to believe, anyway, Ellie thought. She didn’t know she was crying until her mother said ‘What’s wrong, it’s just the turkey, it’s a messy old job but I’m done now’.
But what was turkey mess to Ellie? She couldn’t even smell it anymore because her nose was running. Christmas lay in ruins before her. No need for her to leave out stout or cake. No need to lie afraid of not being able to sleep too early in the first place and wake too early in the second. No little dilemmas about putting toys away until after dinner when the good crockery was safely back in the sideboard, and Granda was snoring in his chair.
But now Ellie's mother was down beside her, her face level with hers – the way it was when she really needed her to understand what she was saying. And she was saying: ‘Of course he’ll remember you’. But Ellie sobbed: ‘No, there are too many little children in the world, and it’s just him and it’s all I had to do, and I was good, I was really good, and I want a doll without pointy heels and elbows, but now he doesn’t know...’
When her mother said: ‘We can phone him’, Ellie's first thought wasn’t ‘But we don’t have a phone’ or ‘How do you know Santa’s number – how do you know Santa has a phone’ but ‘My mother is the best mother in the world’. And then her mother had tissues and was saying ‘Blow’ and Ellie blew; and then her mother had Ellie's overcoat, and her own, and the car keys.
Roadside hedges stood stiff in the dry-night frost to let them pass. Her mother wiped mist from the windscreen and the heater, belting out cold air, undid her work. The village had settled down for the night and everything was quiet. The telephone kiosk, like a candle, lit up the footpath between the church and shop.
Ellie's mother parked beside it and left Ellie in the car. Her bulk filled up the phone box and she was dialing. The little girl watched transfixed, no longer cold, but thinking: ‘He’s probably left already’. At least, she thought, he should have given the distances he had to cover. Her mother gave her a wave and then turned her back. Ellie watched her mother's breath make clouds in the confined space. Her head nodded a couple of times. Then she hung up and came back to the car.
‘Santa’s left already’. Ellie's heart sank. ‘But the elf in charge at the North Pole said of course Santa hadn’t forgotten you – he suggested we get home quickly so Santa doesn’t find you awake when you should be sleeping’.
Ellie thought: ‘But he doesn’t know what to bring me’ but refused worries about dolls with pointy heels or Santa arriving before they got back home. Instead she said: ‘Thank you, Mum’ and her mother said: ‘You’re very welcome, now let’s go home so I can stuff that turkey.’
Ellie knew she’d use the giblets – as funny sounding as the gizzard – to make the gravy. That set Ellie's mind wandering to Christmas Day. Thinking she really liked the part after dinner better than the part before, even though the part before included waking up to Santa’s presents.
Fantastic Christmas story. Really enjoyed this!
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